


Where the Love Light Gleams

by Maya_Koppori



Category: Check Please! (Webcomic)
Genre: 'Swawesome Santa 2016, Christmas Fluff, Fruitcake, Gen, Kent Parson Needs a Hug, M/M, Swawesome Santa, but mainly just giving kent a hug, cancelled flight trope, don't feed fruitcake to cats guys it's not safe, kinda angsty in an introspective way, rated for kent's language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-12
Updated: 2016-12-12
Packaged: 2018-09-08 00:45:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8823259
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maya_Koppori/pseuds/Maya_Koppori
Summary: dangercupcake wanted Kent to be happy for Christmas. I couldn't agree more. The boy just wants some fruitcake, dangit. Kent's mom can't make it to Vegas for Christmas this year, so he resigns himself to solitude. PR won't let this stand.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dangercupcake](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dangercupcake/gifts).



He wants fruitcake.

He’s back from a long roadie, on a two game loss streak ending with the  _ Leafs  _ and at home with the  _ Sharks _ , of all teams, and his apartment is empty and cold and he just wants some goddamn fruitcake.

Kent flings his coat in the general direction of his couch and flops down face first after it, groaning as a crap ton of tension sinks from his chest and shoulders into the cushions. Just because he’s apparently a masochist, he worms his phone out of his jeans pocket and pulls up his email again. 

Leave it to fucking snow to ruin his fucking Christmas. All those cutesy songs about carriage rides and fireplaces and chestnuts never seem to remember that snowstorms happen and not everyone happens to be with their families so they can sing kumbaya and eat popcorn while they wait them out.  _ Some _ people are stuck in the middle of a desert being bothered by snow over two thousand miles away.

_Maybe next year_ , the text from his mom says, sent right after the airline’s email about ‘the regretful situation’ that caused the flight cancellation. He can tell even through the phone that she doesn’t believe it. But it’s  _ fine. _

“Mrrrow,” Kit whines from somewhere in the dark. He looks down to see her licking the free hand that’s dangling off the couch. Something inside his head wakes up at the sight of her. He’s been gone all day, and she wants attention.

“Hey hey, baby girl,” he croons. He flips over and pats his stomach, letting Kit jump fluidly onto him. She nuzzles at his chin and he sighs, scratching at her ears.  Sometimes he wonders why he even got a cat. The internet would have an aneurism if they knew that, but it’s true. Sure, they’re cute and all. But at the end of the day he wants to come home to a person that can talk back to him. 

“Still, you’re all I got right now,” Kent tells her. “That’s a hell of a lot better than nothing.”

Oh, right. That's  _ exactly _ why he got a cat. Funny how he keeps forgetting. 

For the tenth time that day, he thinks about calling Jack. Or Bob. Bob at least keeps in touch. Maybe not Alicia- she doesn’t outright  _ say  _ she hates Kent, but it’s easy enough to pick up on the vibe. It’s the same one Jack sent out loud and clear at Samwell. 

Kent puts his phone face down on the coffee table and buries his face in Kit’s fur. Oh god, he can't believe he actually went there. With the string of away games he's been able to avoid thinking about it, but now it's just him and Kit.  He wishes it wasn’t. He wishes things could go back to the way they used to be. Zimmermann and Parson, the dream team. Zimms, his liney. Jack, his best friend. Or, ex-best friend. Ex-something.

Like… he knows he fucked up. But everything was going just fine until-

“ _ Kenny…” _

No, it wasn't fair. Kent knows he said some awful things to Jack. Jack wasn't any better, pushing him away, pushing  _ them  _ away. But apparently… apparently they’d meant a hell of a lot more to Kent than they’d meant to Jack. Kent is starting to get that. That’s also _fine_. 

An insistent head-butt to his jaw shakes him out of it, and Kent realizes he’s been absentminded in his petting. He roughly scrubs his sleeve over his eyes once, breathing raggedly. “Sorry, princess,” he says. “I bet you're hungry, huh?” Quietly, gently, he bundles Kit in his arms and pads his way to the kitchen in his socks. The clock on the microwave says it’s past two, so it’s officially the twenty-third. The Aces play again in five days, but until then he’s not going to have any distractions. Great.

Shuffling around in his socks, Kent shakes out some food for Kit and makes sure her water bowl is still full. He turns off all of the lights except for the one above the stove and makes his way to the bedroom. He shucks out of his clothes, falling into bed and curling up as tight as he can.  Kit joins him a little while later, announced only by a slight dip in the comforter. She pads over to his pillow and promptly takes over half of it. He’s going to wake up with fur in his mouth somehow, but that’s nothing new anyway.

Making a solemn oath to himself, Kent resolves not to think about it any more tonight. He’s going to get some sleep, go for a run in the morning, and then  _ maybe  _ think about calling Bob again. 

He closes his eyes and when he dreams, he sees the face Jack made at that blond guy at the party, propped comfortably against the wall and leaning into him. He wishes it was the same look he used to give Kent, but he knows it wasn’t. 

* * *

Kent wakes up to the distant sound of his ringtone and, of course, a mouthful of cat fur. He groans and rolls over, toppling out of bed in his boxers. He left his phone on the coffee table again, didn’t he? He vaguely notices Kit trailing after him, but mostly he’s occupied with diving over the back of the couch for his phone. He swipes it open without even looking at the caller ID. “Hello?” he says breathlessly, cautiously hopeful.

“Paaaaarse! What’s up, my man?”

Kent sags over the couch, rolling so he’s laying across it on his back. “Hey, Asher. I just woke up.”

“Ouch, sorry dude. It’s like, noon. Late night?”

“You know exactly how late I was out, douchebag,” Kent snipes. “You had to go through that particular circle of hell with me.”

Asher laughs, hearty and long, and Kent sighs. He can see exactly why a guy like Asher would go for social media PR; even on a losing streak, he still manages to make the Aces look good on Snapchat and Twitter and fuck-all else. Guy probably means all of it, too. He’s just that damn sunny. “Come on, it wasn’t that bad.”

Grimacing, Kent switches hands with his phone and turns so Kit can curl in the crook of his arm while he talks. “We fucking lost by two at home. If we’d been anywhere else I would’ve smacked a fucking reporter for some of the shit they said.” That's the truth, too. Those jackholes ought to know by now not to fucking bring up Zimms, but every time they go on a losing streak Jack's name comes up for some reason or another, mainly when asking about how he feels about the Aces and the Falconer's next game. 

“Jesus, Parse. You say that kind of stuff around your mother?” Asher chirps. "She's gonna wash your mouth out with soap!"

Kent’s stomach rolls, and he curls in on himself reflexively. “Course not. She- her flight got cancelled. It’s just me here.”

There’s silence on the other end for a few heartbeats, followed by a whispered curse. “That sucks, man,” Asher finally says, uncharacteristically serious. “Do you need anything? I- I can come by-”

“No! No, Ash. I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.” Kent hears rustling, and a jingle of what might be (what are probably) keys being snatched from a countertop. “I’m ten minutes away from you. If you want something you’d better speak now or forever hold your peace.”

“Fruitcake.”

Asher gives a disbelieving laugh. “Are you serious? I didn't even know you  _ liked _ fruitcake.”

He knows Asher can’t see him, but Kent smirks as he shakes his head. “I don't, but it's tradition."

Asher’s car door slams, and music starts to drift through the phone. It’s something upbeat with lots of bells- so, on par for this time of year. “You're impossible, you know that?”

“Asher, listen to me. I want a fucking fruitcake. It’s a thing we do. We eat the hell cake and we whine about it. Don't even think about showing up without one.”

Kent can hear the eye roll as well as the surprising fondness in the other man’s voice. “Aye, captain. Give me twenty.”

“Thought you said ten before.”

“I did, but now I've apparently got to find someone in this godforsaken town who can get me a fruitcake. I'm hanging up now, I need Google.”

“Drive safe,” Kent says on reflex. 

“Thanks, Kent. I'll be there soon, alright?”

Kent closes his eyes, a small smile creeping onto his face. “Alright. See you soon.”

He waits for Asher to hang up and then sits upright on the couch to check various time-wasters on his phone. The snow in Neko Atsume is cute as hell. But his fingers keep navigating back to the call screen. He looks at the time stamp for Asher’s call. He still has fifteen minutes until Asher is supposed to be there. That’s enough time for a voicemail, right?

He finds the contact- very deliberately  _ not  _ under his favorites, because he actually has to use those and honestly fuck being that sad and clingy- and punches it before he can lose his nerve by remembering how the tone sounds bouncing off the walls of the Zimmermanns’ kitchen.  When it doesn’t go straight to voicemail he almost hangs up. He doesn’t think a full on conversation will give him enough time to not feel pathetic for company. But finally, the last ring gets cut off by a very familiar voicemail message. Kent gulps and tries to keep his breath steady.

“H-Hey, Bob. I know it’s a couple days early, but. Merry Christmas. I bet you’re all out doing press for charity dinners or something, huh? You were always doing those back in the Q…” Kent shakes himself and gets back on track. “Anyway, I just wanted to call and- and- I don’t know. Mom’s flight got cancelled. So I guess I just wanted to hear a familiar voice.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to ask about Jack, to maybe apologize to him through Bob since there’s no way in hell Jack would pick up if he called his cell (another contact very pointedly not in his favorites, dammit.) But he has no idea if Jack even told his parents about Kent coming to Samwell, and in a series of flashes he sees the questions that could come up. 

They’d had problems in the Q, sure. Hooking up with your liney always leaves the possibility of uncomfortable questions, of getting caught. Kent was always fine with it because he knew that short of actually seeing them fuck, there was nothing in the world that would make the public see the rising stars of one of the most stereotypically masculine sports in the world as anything but straight.

Now, Kent can see each and every thing that can go wrong. Not for himself, but for Jack.  The things he said. The things he tried to do. That blond boy in the hallway, looking both terrified and terrifying on Jack’s behalf. The sound of Jack’s door slamming and locking that caught up to Kent even halfway down the stairs of that rowdy frat house.  That’s the only difference, really, between Kent now and Kent ten years ago. He can see beyond what only affects him directly and consider others, too. It’s not enough to change what happened between them, and it’s not going to make them friends again. Not on its own. But it does mean that he can be better. He wants to be. 

Kent realizes he’s been sitting in silence on the Zimmermanns’ voicemail for half a minute. He clears his throat loudly. “But yeah, uh, say hi to Alicia and Jack for me. Tell them Merry Christmas. Tell them… tell Jack I’m sorry.” He punches the red hang-up button and throws his phone to the other side of the couch before letting himself fall sideways. He draws his knees up and closes his eyes, breathing. He did it. He called. And while he still kind of feels like puking… He managed to finish without making a complete ass of himself. That’s progress already.

Kit lets him curl up in silence for a short time before jumping up on the couch with him to nose at his hands. Kent strokes her absently, and jolts at the knock at his door a minute later. Kit immediately hurls herself under the coffee table to hide, and Kent chuckles at her as he makes his way to the door. “I’m coming!” he calls as another knock echoes through the apartment. He yanks the door open.

Asher jumps back, hand still raised in a fist to knock again. His other arm cradles a wrapped package, but he nearly drops it in his scramble to get away from the door. “P-Parse,” he stammers, not looking at him. “Put some pants on! I gave you plenty of time.”

And Kent realizes that he’s still only in his boxers, which are slung a little low on his hips from all of the couch related parkour he’s attempted this morning. He doesn’t usually pay much attention to that, but then again he doesn't usually have people over first thing.  Not that this is Asher’s idea of first thing- he was right, it’s nearly one in the afternoon and he’s obviously been out and about in the cold. He’s got his Aces jacket on, and a beanie crammed over his dark, curly hair. His cheeks are flushed and his glasses are even a little fogged up as if it’s not like, sixty degrees out. Damn, but Vegas is weak against the cold.

Kent gives Asher a placating glance and ushers him inside. “Alright, gimme a sec. I was making a call and got distracted. I'll be back with  _ pants _ ,” he says in a condescending tone. 

“Chirp chirp chirp,” Asher mutters, but he comes inside anyway and heads straight for the living room. He sets the package on the coffee table and crouches, waving his fingers near the floor. “I know you're down there, KitKat,” he croons. Kit mewls and jumps up on the couch to demand pets, which Asher readily supplies. Kent chuckles as he goes to his room to find clothes. 

He comes out a few minutes later in sweatpants and an old soft t-shirt. It’s an older Aces one, back from the very beginning of the franchise, and he probably would have sold it on eBay or something if he didn’t love it so much. He's actually been thinking about trying to bring that simple-yet-elegant design back if he can. He realizes he could ask Asher about that now, while he's got him here. Asher could put out feelers in the PR department to see if anyone would be up for it. As he re-enters the living room Kent asks, “Hey Ash, what do you think-” His eyes settle on the couch and he freezes. 

Asher sits stock still, looking guiltily at Kent with his jacket in one hand and Kent’s phone in the other. His own phone sits on the coffee table. 

“Sorry!” Asher sets Kent’s phone down as quickly and gently as he can. He won't meet Kent’s eyes. “I thought it was mine- the tone is the same one I use for my dad-”

Kent relaxes marginally and tries to smile. “Dude, it’s all good. Who texted?”

Asher looks even more uncomfortable, glancing off to the side. “Oh, um. Someone named Jack.”

Kent’s hand shoots out and grips his doorframe, and his head swims. “Oh.” He doesn't have Jack’s full name on his contact, but anyone who knows anything about Kent wouldn't have to wonder which Jack it is. 

Looking more uncomfortable by the second, Asher stands. “I-I promise I didn't read it. And I feel like I should remind you that all of us in PR signed NDA’s and anything private that I happen to see is legally protected by-”

“Dude, literally? Shut up.” Kent makes a dismissive motion with his hand. “I let you in after answering the door in my underwear. What part of that says I don't trust you?”

Asher still hesitates, one hand in the pocket of his bundled up jacket failing to be subtle about finding his car keys.

Kent sighs. “I mean, if you really wanna go…”

“No!” Asher makes a show of settling back on the couch, quickly situating himself next to Kit and starting up the purr engine once again. He drapes his jacket across the back of the couch for good measure. “I can’t let you stay here all alone right now,” he says, more firmly than he’s said anything so far. “What am I gonna do if you decide to get drunk on eggnog and start tweeting? The internet is forever man, and I don’t wanna clean that shit up.”

“Fuck you,” Kent says amiably. He flops down next to Asher on Kit’s other side and casually palms his phone. Sure enough, there’s a notification from Jack. Wow. Bob works fast. Kent braces himself and swipes across his phone screen to open the message.  He’s prepared for anything. He’s prepared to be cussed out, told to never contact Jack’s family about him ever again. He’s prepared to get told off again for that stunt he pulled at Samwell. He’s prepared for it.

He’s not prepared for  _ Sorry about your mom. I hope you have someone with you. Merry Christmas, Kent. :) _

Well fuck him sideways. Jack Zimmermann knows how to use smileys. Kent’s thumb twitches. He’s already composing a reply in his head, already scraping and making justifications and- 

He types out a  _ Thanks Jack :) gtg, company. Ttyl?  _ a nd hits send with a quick tap. There. That’s simultaneously more and less than he ever thought he could give Jack. Both are good things.

“... You good, man?” Asher asks tentatively. 

Kent realizes he hasn’t been breathing. He does so, letting out a long breath before locking his phone, setting it to vibrate, and tossing it aside. “Yeah. Yeah, everything’s good. Now come on- I need some ‘lost a game’ calories and this fruitcake brick house isn’t gonna eat itself.” He doesn’t bother with plates or anything, just tears a chunk out and eats with his fingers while passing another piece to Asher. 

They eat in silence, and Kent debates whether or not to give Kit a piece just to see her reaction. But wait, are there raisins in it? He can’t tell anymore. He goes to unwrap the package on the coffee table, but pauses when he feels Asher staring. “What?” he asks, raising an eyebrow. “You want another piece of this?”

Asher doesn’t look at the remaining fruitcake in his hands as he licks his dry lips and swallows. “Uh… sure.” The phone buzzes brightly next to Kent’s leg, and Asher jumps guiltily. “But seriously Kent, I can give you some space if you need to take that.”

“Don’t need to,” Kent says plainly. He ends up not being able to help himself and winks, adding “I much prefer present company.” He hears Asher curse colorfully under his breath, cheeks flaming once again, and laughs. “Actually, I was wondering if  _ you  _ were okay. Your face has been so red since you got here I thought you might be going for Rudolph.”

“Well  _ you  _ try showing up here and seeing you-” Asher’s eyes widen and his jaw clicks shut as he realizes what he’s saying. He stuffs his cake in his mouth and chews angrily.

Fully abandoning the fruitcake now, Kent turns on the couch and leans in toward Asher with an amused look on his face. “Seeing me what?” he asks innocently. “Don’t tell me you got embarrassed. You’re in the locker room all the time.”

Impossibly, Asher’s face turns even redder. It’s like that video the ‘Canes put up of skinner, his whole face glowing with the heat of his mortification. “That’s not fair, Kent,” he says softly, tightly. There’s a wobble to his bottom lip that gives Kent pause.

“What’s not?”

“It’s not fair that you get to fake-flirt with me after I went through two years of  _ making  _ myself not flirt with  _ you _ ,” Asher hisses. Tears dot his lashes, streaking across the lenses of his glasses until he rips them off in frustration and sets them next to his phone. “It’s not  _ funny,  _ Kent. I want to stay here and I want to be your friend but you can’t- you can’t just-”

“And who the  _ fuck  _ said I was joking?” Kent demands.

They sit there, breathing hard, and only then does Kent realize how loud their voices had gotten. They’ve also somehow gotten very, very close on the couch. Kent could reach out and touch Asher’s face right now, and he’s shocked to find that part of him wants to.

_Fuck it_ , he thinks, and does. He cups Asher’s jaw, jerkily thumbs across his cheekbone to dry the tears gathered there. “I don’t joke about stuff like that,” he tells Asher softly. “Not anymore. Everything’s over too fast to joke about it.”

Asher sits frozen, has been since the first touch of Kent’s hand. With his glasses off, Kent can see every thought whirling behind those brown eyes- there’s wonder, and confusion, and an emotion he only  _ ever  _ sees when people think about him and Jack, about Jack’s overdose, the apprehension of what Kent himself almost lost during that draft. And then relief, overwhelming and warm as Asher places his hand over Kent’s and squeezes.

“No one can find out,” he whispers. “There’d be a field day in the press.”

“I’m not worried,” Kent replies. “Someone told me lately that everyone involved already signed an NDA.”

Asher snorts and turns his face into Kent’s palm. “NDA this,” he retorts before leaning in to kiss him. He tastes like fruitcake and a smile.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm submitting this a few hours early because I don't know what my schedule is going to be this week and also I've had this thing written since mid November and I want it out in the world. The swawesome santa crew are absolute gems for putting all of this together and I can't wait to do it again next year!


End file.
